She was gone when he woke up. And for one long moment he stared in confusion, and wondered if he had dreamed the night before.
Too many signs contradicted that theory, but he still couldn't help but wonder in a sort of childish disbelief.
He had expected her emotions to be different in the morning, but he hadn't expected his to change. For a long time, or how it seemed, he sat at the edge of the bed staring down at his own hands, and fought back a strangely insistent urge to weep.
Weep. Not cry.
There was a different taste to those types of tears, a subtle flavor of despair. A broken texture, not as sharp as glass, but strangely cold and numbing, like slivers of ice.
It wasn't shame, and it wasn't regret. It was a curious sensation, and it felt...final.
He wasn't surprised that she wasn't in the apartment. He could understand her need for space to think.
Thinking, however, would not change the inevitable. It wouldn't take back words said and actions made. He wasn't in this alone, and she had ...reached for him.
He shuddered, and that urge to cry was suddenly gone. In its place was something...determined. The time was past for recriminations, for denial, and for self-doubt. Maybe they were never meant to be here, but 'here' they were. And maybe the noble thing would be to back-off, but he didn't think he could. Even now his body fairly shook with the desire to be near her.
It probably wasn't even possible, but he felt as if last night had shifted things, physically, mentally. Like the very components of his soul had been rearranged. Or maybe...grown.
Something had definitely grown in him. And he felt so full on emotion, but at the same time, strangely insatiable for more.
Sitting on the edge of the bed with his pants half-on seemed silly. He kicked them off and fought the urge to fall back into the sheets and roll around. Her essence and his stained these sheets, mixed together in some odd and distracting perfume. He didn't half understand this need he felt to paint their fluids across his skin, to smell, and touch, and taste.
But the half he did understand was so very compelling. It was the half that groaned when he stepped into the bathroom right after she'd just had a shower, when it was warm, and steam still fogged the mirror, and her scent was strong and all around him. It was the half that...grew hazy with lust and contentment when he saw his own seed tracing glistening lines on her thighs.
And oddly enough, it was this same part that had wanted to cry earlier.
He stared at his jeans, a hapless heap on the floor, his eyes flicked to a pool of shirt beyond. Habit prompted him to clean, to straighten, but he stayed right where he was and committed the sight to memory.
Last night's shoes were spilled over by the door, her panties not too far from her skirt, and one strap of her bra peeking from the crumpled pile of his own shirt, strewn across one end of the futon. The futon itself was in clear disarray, the pillow shoved to the floor, the cover spilled to one side.
The whole room seemed an ironic study of dishevelment, and he was hesitant to straighten anything, as it was all clear proof of what happened. It was chaotic, and quick, and passionate distraction: the very essence of their encounter last night.
And in that, he understood the implications when he slowly got up and began to put things back in their proper place.
Morning had come, and this was what had to be done. It was an ironic parallel to what he knew their relationship was going to be for awhile. Instinctive knowledge, but no less true. Moments of chaos and distraction, and passion, balanced with moments of order, planning, and affection. It would come easily to them, he realized, because it was who they were already.
We've already created patterns...
As she had hinted last night, they were already half-living like a couple. There were only a few more steps for them to take, but he also knew they were going to be the most trying. He had to lead her forward while she tried to turn back.
But he wouldn't let her retreat. Not now. Not when they were both so close to what they wanted.
He paused at that, kneeling on the floor and reaching for her skirt. Did she want this? Or was he projecting his own emotions on her just to excuse his actions.
No.
Maybe a little.
She was wary, but she did want him, he knew that much. And she loved him. They fit seamlessly, and despite the sheer impossibility, he could really see how perfect they could be for each other. Not without conflict or flaw, but with the ability to find a harmony on a more emotional level. To find meaning and a foothold in a world that was far too slippery.
His hand closed around her skirt, adding it to the growing bundle in his other arm. But his eyes were elsewhere. Plans and determination interweaved in his mind, vague ideas that he hardly noticed, but pushed to the back to process later.
He stretched his arm out and plucked up her panties, fighting the urge to do something that was intriguing but distinctly...pointless now. A scrap of discarded cotton could not compare to the real thing. And he had tasted that fact for himself.
He pushed himself on quickly before he could get distracted with such thoughts. There were things to be done, and he knew it would set her more at ease to not have to be directly confronted with the clearly physical evidence of how far her defenses had been breached.
Not that he was backing off, but he wasn't going to cause her undue mental strain. Besides, with everything in place, he knew he would then become the centre of her attention.
And it was their roles. She courted chaos. And he kept the order.
And the habitual movements were settling his own ruffled thoughts. Making a decision didn't mean he didn't still have his own misgivings. It only meant his were more concerned with finding ways around her defenses and guilt, then messing further with ideas about his own defenses and guilt.
He had conquered that part of his personality long ago, so now it was only a matter of leading her though hers.
He straightened and dumped the old clothes in the basket, moving with the same empty eyes back to the futon and setting it right quickly the force of habit. It only took a few minutes, and he paused once more to get his bearings.
If I let myself think about it-I still don't quite believe it. Aya...wants me?
She didn't need to come right out and say it; it was obvious in the pure inevitability of her conflict. In how close she had kept this knowledge to her chest, and for how long.
These past few weeks...all this uncharacteristic silence of hers...this was what she was struggling with? This was what was in her eyes the other morning?
I was right. About that look. She was –looking- at me. Seeing...Me.
He still didn't half fathom it.
He stared at the bed and hesitated in his actions. He didn't want to 'fix' the bed. He liked seeing the tangled mess of sheets, and the heady aroma of sex, and Aya, and himself that surrounded it. Again, he felt the urge to roll his naked body across, gather the sheets up and breathe deep as he buried his face in them.
I wish Aya were here. I want to kiss her...
But Aya wasn't there, and he doubted she'd be interested in soft kisses when she got home. He ignored the small, distant voice that wanted to add a question to that. He knew better.
With a deep sigh, he began unwinding the tangle of sheets and covers, and ignoring them with the same resolve he had ignored her panties. Pale scraps of impersonal cloth were not enough anymore. They weren't what he wanted. So he stripped the bed completely, down to its mattress, then set the basket aside to be taken downstairs later. After he had his shower.
tbc...